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  “Give him back, Frederick!” Bruno leaped into the air but fell short. “The cobbler has enough elves already. Last time we gave him thirteen children and a calf, remember? He didn’t need Sir Bluberys or his mule!”

  Thirteen children. A calf. Was it possible? Could he be speaking of the Widow Francis’s children and Milky White’s calf? If it was the same, then Papa had to have gone there, too….

  “You can’t keep elves without the king’s permission. You broke the law.”

  “Just give him back!” Bruno tried to grab for Sir Bluberys, but Frederick jumped to the side and switched the mule and Sir Bluberys to his other hand.

  “I’ll give him back…after we take another village. Otherwise, I’ll tell the king you stole him.”

  Bruno froze with his hands still in the air. His face turned a pale shade of gray. “You wouldn’t,” he whispered.

  Frederick sneered. “Try me.”

  Bruno dropped his hands in defeat.

  “What would the king do?” I asked Tom.

  “Beats me,” said Tom. “I’ve never heard of anyone who stole from the king and lived to tell the tale.”

  I shivered, thinking of all the awful things King Barf might do to a thief. Sharp blades came to mind. Shackles. Fires. Whatever it was, the threat was enough to frighten Bruno into doing what Frederick wanted.

  “I’ll go,” said Bruno. “Now give him back.” He reached for Sir Bluberys, but Frederick pulled away. “You can have him after we get the village.”

  “No! That’s not fair!” Bruno lunged at his brother, but Frederick dodged him easily.

  “Keep trying, little brother. One day you’ll be able to best me. Or not.”

  Frederick leered at Bruno and then walked out the door with Sir Bluberys, who was still waving his sword and shouting, “I’ll slice thee to bits! I’ll chop off thy nose! I’ll…” His cries faded as Frederick walked away.

  Bruno stood in the midst of the armory, helpless against his brute of a brother. Huge tears trickled down his cheeks. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost, except for the fact that he had taken Papa, and apparently gave him to a cobbler.

  Bruno wiped his tears and slumped out of the room.

  “C’mon!” shouted Tom as soon as the footsteps had faded. He jumped onto a spear leaning against the table and climbed up to where Sir Bluberys had been and where his feast still remained. I climbed up after him. Tom ripped off the other turkey leg and tore into it. I picked at some of the bread, but I wasn’t very hungry.

  “So…the cobbler,” I said.

  Tom slurped some drink from a nutshell and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What about him?”

  “That giant Frederick said Sir Bluberys should have gone to a cobbler with other elves and a calf…. Do you think my papa could have gone there?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Tom dug into a pie like he didn’t care. Well, why should he? It wasn’t his papa. But it was almost like he didn’t want me to find him.

  “Tom, did you have a family Below? A mother, a father?”

  Tom shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t remember.”

  “How long have you been here? When did the giants take you?”

  “I guess about a year ago. Maybe longer. I can’t remember, really.”

  “How do you not remember your family after just a year?”

  “Because I don’t,” snapped Tom.

  I fell silent. Maybe his parents weren’t very nice people, or maybe he had been an orphan back home. I guessed I would prefer Martha in the giant world to either of those, and I wouldn’t care whether or not someone else found his own papa.

  “Listen, Jack,” said Tom in a very serious tone, “I didn’t want to say this at first, but chances are you’re not going to find your papa. It’s a giant world out there, and if you go wandering around confronting all these giants, you’re going to get hurt. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then take my advice. Don’t worry about your papa. He’s a grown-up, right? Grown-ups can take care of themselves. He should be the one to find you.”

  “But…I came here to find my papa. If I don’t find him, he might be lost forever.” The very thought of this made my throat tighten up so I could hardly breathe.

  Tom looked away from me. “It’s dark now. Martha will be worried.”

  We went back to the kitchens by mouse and cheese, but it wasn’t such fun this time. My chest was still tight from what Tom had said about not finding Papa.

  When we returned, Martha tucked us into the sugar bowl, but I slept fitfully. I kept thinking about the cobbler, shoes, Papa. It all just churned in my brain, and I woke with an idea. It was so brilliant, yet so simple, I almost laughed out loud.

  I knew just how I was going to get to the cobbler.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Cobbler, Cobbler, Mend the Shoe

  When Martha took us out of the sugar bowl the next morning, I was ready to put my plan in place, except of course there was the milking to be done. And then there was Tom. I decided not to share my plan with him. I still felt a prickly annoyance at the things he’d said in the armory, and it was clear he had no interest in helping me find Papa. That was fine. I would find him on my own, but getting Tom to leave me alone was a separate task. He kept squirting me with milk. He tried to get me to joust, race, and play tug-of-war or spoon catapult.

  “How about hide-and-seek?” I suggested. “You can hide first.”

  “Great!” said Tom. “You’ll never find me in a hundred years!”

  “Great,” I echoed, and Tom ran off while I started counting. I stopped at ten. Yes, I was ditching Tom. Yes, it was a little mean, but what could I do?

  I ran to the other end of the table, where Martha sat squinting at a pile of tiny carrots as she attempted to chop off the green tops. A bunch of elves were making much faster work of their own pile.

  “You would think we could grow some carrots, but no, we must rely on slivers. Ouch! I cut my finger again!” Martha wrapped her finger in her apron, which created a little cloth bridge between the table and her pocket.

  I easily crawled inside and found my axe nestled in the corner. Ha! I slipped the axe into the rope around my waist and slid down the rest of Martha’s skirts to her giant shoe. I took out my axe and very carefully and slowly worked the blade into the threads of Martha’s shoe, sawing and cutting as much as I could between the leather and the wooden sole. It was hard work getting through the stitching, like cutting through thick cords, and Martha shifted her feet every now and then. Sometimes she tapped her toe, and I just had to sit there and bounce until she stopped, but eventually I got through several stitches, and when I finished, there was a fine gap in the toe. Big enough that she would need someone to fix it. A cobbler.

  I tucked the axe back at my waist and climbed up Martha’s skirts and apron. Martha was still talking and chopping carrots, and no one seemed to have noticed my disappearance at all, not even Tom. He was still hiding. I smiled, pleased that my years of troublemaking had been put to good use. Wouldn’t Mama be proud?

  After Martha had finished with the carrot tops, she stood up and dusted her hands. “All right, my little elves. It is time to prepare the stew. Let us— Oh!” Martha tripped and fell forward. She knocked over the giant bowl of little carrots and caught herself on the edge of the table. A dozen elves ran to the spilled carrots and started scooping them back inside.

  “Oh deary me, what a nuisance! I seem to have worked a hole into my shoe!” She slipped off the shoe and set it on the table, displaying the gaping hole at the toe. “This will never do.”

  While the other elves busied themselves picking up carrots, I slipped inside the shoe.

  “I need a gnome. Where’s a gnome?” Martha asked. Peering through the toe hole I saw her go to the window over the sink and sing, “Messaaaaage!” A moment later she yanked up one of those stupid pudgy creatures that kept copying me. He wriggled his feet in the air. So those were gnomes.r />
  “A message for Siegfried the cobbler,” said Martha.

  Dearest Siegfried,

  As you can see, I have worn a large hole in my shoe, and I simply cannot prepare the king’s supper under such conditions. Please stitch it up as best you can, and I shall give you a pie or a slab of cheese in return, whichever you prefer. I prefer the cheese, but perhaps you would favor the pie since I gave you cheese in return for making boots for my dear little boy Tom Thumb. He is doing well, such a sweet thing, and I have a new little son, too. Tim Thumb! He was nearly eaten by my cat, poor dear, and then the king nearly swallowed him whole when he fell into the pudding. But he is safe and sound with me. Where is he now? Oh well, probably hiding in a teacup somewhere. Those boys are full of such mischief. I thank you for mending my poor shoe. It is also in service to His Royal Majesty, King Bartholomew Archibald Reginald Fife.

  Yours Truly,

  Martha, the Royal Cook

  “Now repeat that, please,” said Martha, and the gnome repeated the message, except he jumbled a few phrases. Instead of “Please stitch it up,” he said, “Please hiccup,” and “He was nearly eaten by my cat” became “He was nearly beaten by a rat.”

  “Close enough,” said Martha. “Take the shoe and be off with you.”

  Martha handed the shoe to the gnome, and then to my surprise she picked him up by the hair and flung him out the window. I expected us to crash and roll in the dirt, and myself to fly out of the shoe, but the gnome landed on his feet, lithe as a cat, and started running. “Message for Siegfried the cobbler!” he chanted as he ran down the path and out the palace gates. Down the hill we went. In less than ten minutes, without so much as a flea getting in my way, we arrived at the cobbler’s door. My plan had worked beautifully!

  “Message for Siegfried! Message for Siegfried!” The gnome shouted louder and louder until at last the door opened. I peered through the hole of the shoe as a wizened old man stepped out. He had enormous bat-like ears, and a face so wrinkly it looked like tree bark. He wore spectacles and a long leather apron full of giant hammers and scissors and chisels and other tools.

  “I am Siegfried the cobbler,” the old man wheezed.

  The gnome rattled off his message, and the cobbler seemed to fall asleep while he listened. His eyes drooped and his head nodded. When the gnome had finished, the cobbler jolted awake with a snort. “Wha? Who? Oh yes. Very good. I will take the shoe. And message for Martha. Her shoe will be fixed by tomorrow morning. I’ll take a pie. And some ale if she can spare it. The end,” said the cobbler.

  The gnome toddled out the door chanting, “Message for Martha! Message for Martha!”

  The cobbler looked closely at the ripped seam in the shoe. He sniffed at the gap, and his giant nostrils almost suctioned me up. I crouched low against the side.

  “Let’s see,” mumbled the cobbler. “There’s a hole…it needs five, three, six, or ten stitches and a good hammering on the heel and a polish. Easy as pie, and a pie for payment!”

  The cobbler tossed the shoe onto his worktable, and I tumbled out of the hole when it crashed to the surface. Standing up, I found myself in a garden of shoes. Giant boots like tree trunks, long shoes with curled tips that looked like boats, and lovely slippers embroidered with silk and gold threads and shiny beads.

  Two men emerged from among the shoes carrying rags blackened with leather polish. It was smeared on their noses and cheeks, so they looked like chimney sweeps.

  “We’ve got ’er, Mr. Siegfried.” They marched over to Martha’s shoe, heaved it up on their shoulders like a log. They carried it over to a tall stand with a giant shoe mold on the top. I had seen one in the cobbler’s shop back home, but of course this was quite a bit larger, a giant foot sticking upside down in the air.

  More elves joined in the task, emerging from shoes like termites coming out of the woodwork. Two elves climbed up to the top of the shoe mold and dropped down ropes. Below them, two more elves affixed the ropes to Martha’s shoe.

  “Heave ’er up!” they called, and the elves on the top pulled and tugged on the shoe until it slid upside down over the mold. The top elves then unwound a giant rope ladder with pins and needles for the rungs, and half a dozen elves climbed up to the shoe. A few of them pounded the old leather, and began to stitch with a giant needle and thread. It looked like they were raising a barn.

  “Oh, very good,” said the cobber. “You are such fine little cobblers. Here, let me get that stitch. I can do it.” The cobbler pulled the needle away from the elves. He squinted his crinkly eyes and took aim with shaky hands. He jabbed the needle toward the shoe and nearly stabbed a tall, skinny elf with curly black hair, who tumbled off the tip of the shoe and had to be pulled up by the others. Meanwhile, the cobbler had slid the needle right through the gap in the shoe and pulled it back out without making a stitch at all.

  “There,” said the cobber, smiling. “I make a fine stitch, don’t you think? It’s these steady hands.” He held his hands to his face. They quivered like a leaf in the wind. “Strong, steady hands. Now it’s time to hammer the sole.”

  The cobbler raised a hammer the size of an oak tree above his head. The elves scattered in all directions, except for one, a short and portly elf with a long red beard who called out to the cobbler.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Siegfried, but yer lookin’ a bit tired. Maybe ye should take a wee nap.”

  “No, no. I’ve so much work to do.” The cobbler yawned. The hammer teetered dangerously.

  “Why don’t ye give that hammer ta old Duncan,” said the red-bearded elf. “I can pound the shoe fur ye, good as new, and you can take a wee rest in yer chair by the fire.”

  “I suppose I could rest for just a minute.” The cobbler dropped the hammer into Duncan’s arms. The elf buckled under the weight of it until several more came to his rescue.

  “Pound it hard,” said the cobbler, tottering over to his chair by the fire. “And don’t forget to trim the strings. You don’t want people tripping about on their shoestrings. That’s a mark of a poor craftsman.”

  “Nay, sir! Aye, sir!” said Duncan.

  The old cobbler sat, almost squashing a cow-sized puppy that had been sleeping in his chair. The furry white dog yapped and wriggled out from under him, and in less than ten seconds the cobbler was asleep and snoring. The dog trotted over to watch the elves at work, wagging his tail excitedly.

  “Poor old chap,” said Duncan, nodding toward the cobbler. “He canna stay awake fur more than a minute.”

  “And he canna hold a needle steady to save his life,” said the tall skinny elf whom the cobbler had nearly stabbed. “He almost ended mine!” He was nearly twice the height of Duncan, yet clearly Duncan was in charge.

  “Ah, quit your blubberin’, Bruce,” said Duncan. “We got a job ta do.”

  “I don’t see why,” said Bruce. “I didna ask to come here. I ne’er wanted ta make giant shoes.”

  “Oh, fine, then,” said Duncan, glaring up at Bruce. “Go on and go out there, then, why don’t ye. If yer not crushed in a moment, maybe you can go work in a stable and change giant horseshoes.”

  Bruce cowered and pulled at his curly hair. He clearly saw giant horseshoes as a real and terrifying possibility. “I suppose things could be worse.”

  “Tha’s right, they could! Now get this hammer to the heel and pound the nails! An’ you get back ta the stitchin’.”

  Papa was not on top of the shoe, but there were elves all over the table, cutting leather with giant scissors, polishing boots, and sewing beads on slippers. I weaved in and out of all the shoes, searching. Still no Papa.

  I looked inside some of the shoes and found piles of cotton fluff and blankets, crudely made candlesticks set in giant buttons, and a few small piles of potatoes and cabbages. It looked as though these elves worked on shoes during the day and slept in them at night. They didn’t have shelves full of cows and chickens, or giant slabs of cheese, as we did in the kitchen, so they stashed what food they could find. I�
�m sure one of Martha’s pies was a very good trade for a mended shoe. Better than gold, maybe.

  A woman stood by a large witchy-looking shoe with a brass buckle. She held infants on both hips and looked quite frazzled. “Now, children,” said the woman. “Stay out of my way. Go play, and mind the needles and scissors and the ledge. If you’re good, there’ll be a nice supper tonight.” Children in raggedy clothes crawled out of the shoe and scampered in all directions. I recognized them! It was Widow Francis and her thirteen children. And there was a calf! One of the younger children was riding it like a pony. It was Milky White’s calf, I was sure of it.

  “Stay close to the shoe!” said Widow Francis. “Don’t fall!” The children laughed and went about playing Hunt the Slipper, singing the song:

  Cobbler, Cobbler, mend my shoe.

  Stitch it up and make it new.

  One, two, three, four

  Stitches will do!

  “Widow Francis!” I called. The old woman turned to me. She looked confused for a moment, and then she frowned and I knew she recognized me. When I was younger, I used to play with her triplet sons, Larry and Barry and Jerry, but she said they weren’t allowed to talk to me after I accidentally set fire to the blacksmith shop. “Oh,” she said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  “Actually it was a gnome who dragged me in. The cat tried to eat me.”

  Widow Francis just blinked. I shifted and looked around. “I’m looking for my papa. Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, of course I have.”

  My heart soared. I knew it! I knew he would be here! “Where is he?!” I shouted.

  “Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” said Widow Francis.

  “But you just said—”

  “He was here, but not anymore.”

  My heart crashed. “What do you mean? What happened to him?”

  Widow Francis caught sight of one of her babies knocking over a big glass jar.

  “Ned! Don’t eat the polish! I’m sorry, dear. What?”